A friend of mine asked me the other day what my Christmas traditions were.
I realized: I have none. Literally none. My family has some, but me, the adult Tracy, has no traditions that are independent of my childhood.
So I got a Christmas tree. And I decorated it. With race medals. It still needs lights, but it's a start. And it's something to do with all of my medals!
Don't make fun of me. I happen to know for fact that I am not the only Christmas running dork out there.
I might have been raised in the UCC, but I'm equal opportunity when it comes to celebrating holidays, especially those associated with food. Here's a photo from a latke party I went to over the weekend. Would you believe that I'd never had a latke before?
I didn't run this past weekend. That may - MAY - have been related to the fact that I left Brooklyn (where the latke party was being held) at a reasonable hour Saturday night. I remember dozing off on the subway, but I don't remember how I got my sleeping bag down from a high shelf before collapsing into it on the couch. I'm sure I was just tired and not drunk, but the bottles of wine on the table suggest that the two aren't mutually exclusive.
On I went, out of the wood, passing the man leading without knowing I was going to do so. Flip-flap, flip-flap, jog-trot, jog-trot, curnchslap-crunchslap, across the middle of a broad field again, rhythmically running in my greyhound effortless fashion, knowing I had won the race though it wasn't half over, won it if I wanted it, could go on for ten or fifteen or twenty miles if I had to and drop dead at the finish of it, which would be the same, in the end, as living an honest life like the governor wanted me to. -Alan Sillitoe, "Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner"